<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Guilt and Memory by EmLeeKoe</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852485">Guilt and Memory</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmLeeKoe/pseuds/EmLeeKoe'>EmLeeKoe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Jess and Thomas's post-canon adventures [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Great Library Series - Rachel Caine</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Boys Kissing, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Father Figures, Gay, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt, Trauma, Vodka, Whump</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 00:41:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,506</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26852485</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmLeeKoe/pseuds/EmLeeKoe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Even long after it's over, traumatic events can still haunt you.</p>
<p>(Or: Jess has a Lot of Feelings, My Poor Child)</p>
<p>Feat. the Obscurist ring, Chechnyan vodka, and kissing.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jess Brightwell/Thomas Schreiber, Niccolo Santi/Christopher Wolfe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Jess and Thomas's post-canon adventures [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696276</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Guilt and Memory</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>See notes at the end for German translations.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>
    <em>Ephemera: Excerpt from the personal journal of Jess Brightwell, during the early days of his postulancy.</em>
  </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <em>A new student joined us today. Her name is Morgan Hault. She’s from Oxford, and she’s starved enough to prove it. But the way she carries herself, the way she acts, none of it betrays the fact that she just escaped a war zone.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Her hair is curly, and brown, and she has one of the nicest smiles I’ve ever seen. Oh Heron, is this a crush? I can’t have a crush on a fellow postulant. It would distract me from my studies. If I don’t succeed here, I let Da down, and I’ll have nowhere else to go when he disowns me.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>No, I have no time for crushes. I will be polite and friendly, but I must swear to myself it will go no further.</em>
</p>
<p>________________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>“Oh Jess, <em>nicht wieder*</em>.”</p>
<p>Jess flinched, forcing the fingernails of his left hand from his right wrist, and glanced briefly upward at Thomas, quickly lowering his eyes again in shame. “It’s fine,” he said, then cleared his throat because his voice hadn’t worked. “I’m fine.”</p>
<p>In the entryway to their shared home, Thomas set down the oil-stained canvas bag of tools he lugged to his workshop every morning, on the tiles near the door. Jess realized then that he hadn’t even heard him come in.</p>
<p>Jess had been sitting on the floor, his back against the sofa, knees pulled up to his chest, so long that he could no longer feel his tailbone. It was dark; when had the sun disappeared? As a matter of fact, when had he sat down here? The last thing he remembered was rereading the old journal from his postulant days, which he’d found while rearranging the books on the shelves, and then…</p>
<p>And then, he’d come across the first entry about Morgan, and he’d spun down into a slippery black hole.</p>
<p>Thomas turned on a gentle Glow across the room, the brightness mild enough that it didn’t make Jess squint, then crossed to the sofa and sat down, his calf pressing against Jess’s upper arm. He said nothing, just waited.</p>
<p>Jess pressed the bleeding flesh of his right wrist to his thigh, his brown linen trousers soaking up the fresh blood; it stung, but he didn’t have the energy to wince. It wasn’t anything deep, anyway, not like when he’d found Thomas deep in the throes of an episode of trauma, trying to snuff himself out because he’d thought he was back in his cell with no escape.</p>
<p>It had begun as a way to stop himself from slipping away, then when that failed, it had devolved into a mechanical motion, one he hadn’t realized he was still doing until Thomas had walked in. The fingertips of his left hand were somehow sticky and slick at the same time, and blood was drying under his nails. His heartbeat pulsated in burning waves through his right arm.</p>
<p>He was so, so tired; the growing undercurrent of anger had kept him awake the past three nights, save for an hour or two of stolen sleep when his body was too exhausted to keep his eyes open anymore, and those brief respites had only served to make him more tired and irritable, more susceptible to the dark side of his own mind.</p>
<p>Anit had seen how poorly he was when he arrived to work that morning, and demanded he go home and rest, with many exasperated reassurances that she could handle their bookshop alone for a single day.</p>
<p>But he hadn’t been able to rest.</p>
<p>“I found my old journal,” he finally said, when the silence became too much. “And read it.”</p>
<p>Thomas still said nothing.</p>
<p>Now that he’d begun, Jess found that he didn’t want to talk about it. But Thomas’s quiet, reassuring presence forced the words out, and it made him irrationally angry. He clenched his fists. “And I found where I wrote about Morgan for the first time.”</p>
<p>“Ah,” Thomas said quietly.</p>
<p>Jess shook his head, the anger roiling inside him, growing larger, hotter, transforming itself into rage that he couldn’t pinpoint the source or direction of. It was just a black, burning cloud that filled up every bit of space between his organs and continued to grow until it constricted his lungs.</p>
<p>“Jess,” said Thomas. “I’m here.”</p>
<p><em>No shit,</em> he barely kept himself from saying. No matter how clouded and angry his mind was, he could never, ever hurt Thomas.</p>
<p>He was on his feet before deciding to get up. “Taking a walk,” he grumbled, shoving his feet into his boots.</p>
<p>“That sounds nice,” said Thomas. “It’s a beautiful night. I’ll come.”</p>
<p>“<em>Alone</em>,” Jess said firmly, and when Thomas’s gentle smile faltered, it was like a punch to the gut.</p>
<p>But he’d hurt his best friend worse if he spent any more time around him tonight. Somehow, even after all he’d been through, after everything that had been done to him, Thomas was too soft, too loving, too positive, to take the brunt of what was going on inside Jess right now.</p>
<p>Jess knew this, even though he didn’t know exactly <em>what</em> was going on inside him.</p>
<p>Outside, the air had cooled with the disappearance of the sun, and overhead, the sky was dusted with stars, like metal shavings on the floor of Thomas’s workshop after a busy day.</p>
<p>He stomped down the street, pounding his anger into the paving stones, but it provided no relief. Her name kept ringing through his head, like the bells of an insistent clock tower. <em>Morgan, Morgan, Morgan.</em></p>
<p>As he walked on, aimlessly and endlessly, miles passing unheeded beneath his feet, the name morphed into two distinct words, and they rang louder than ever: <em>my fault, my fault, MY FAULT.</em></p>
<p>The guilt overtook him suddenly, and it was so heavy that he had to stop walking and lean on the wall of a nearby house to catch his breath, clutching at his chest with his free hand. A rushing noise filled his ears—blood pumping far too hard and fast. He was imploding.</p>
<p>He thought he heard, past the roaring in his ears, the sound of a familiar voice calling his name, but he couldn’t remember how to look up. Black spots swam in his vision, and his knees were growing weaker by the second.</p>
<p>“Jess,” the voice said again, right in front of him now, and he felt the familiar grip of Christopher Wolfe’s hand at his elbow, firm but comforting at the same time.</p>
<p>He jerked his entire body away, his back slamming against the stone wall of the house. He didn’t deserve comfort. It was his fault, all his fault.</p>
<p>“Come inside, Jess,” Wolfe said.</p>
<p><em>Inside where?</em> the part of him that wasn’t overcome by the blackness wondered quietly.</p>
<p>“Brightwell,” Wolfe snapped. “That’s an order.”</p>
<p>After doing a poor job of catching his breath, Jess followed Wolfe across the quiet street and through a door; it wasn’t until Wolfe was locking the bolts behind them that he realized his subconscious had guided his unwitting steps all the way to Wolfe and Santi’s house. He would have laughed if he remembered how. Of course. Of course he’d end up here. The men were hard enough to handle his anger if he exploded, experienced enough to know what to do or say most of the time, and he felt safe with them.</p>
<p>He felt safe with them.</p>
<p><em>I don’t deserve to feel safe¸</em> he thought, and turned toward the door.</p>
<p>“So help me, Brightwell, if you touch that door I will turn you inside out,” Wolfe informed him.</p>
<p>“Will you, now?” came Niccolo Santi’s voice, accompanying the creak of the loose floorboard in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room.</p>
<p>“I might have you do it for me,” Wolfe grumbled, “if only so I don’t get blood under my fingernails.”</p>
<p>“Speaking of which.” Santi was suddenly at Jess’s side, snatching up his left hand in a grip too firm for Jess to pull out of, no matter how he tried.</p>
<p>“Get off,” he grumbled.</p>
<p>Santi paid him no mind except to ask “Where did this come from?”</p>
<p>“This is just a guess,” Wolfe said, “but probably right there.” When Santi glanced at him, he nodded toward Jess’s right arm, covered by an off-white sleeve that Jess only now noticed was spotted with drying blood.</p>
<p>“It’s fine,” Jess said, and yanked his hand out of Santi’s grasp while he was distracted. “I’m fine.”</p>
<p>“Let’s say you are, just for argument’s sake,” Wolfe said, crossing his arms in that infuriating, imperious way he had. If Jess’s blood hadn’t been boiling before…</p>
<p>“Yes,” agreed Santi. “Let’s say you’re just fine. Since when does <em>just fine</em> Jess Brightwell show up out of breath outside our door in the middle of the night?”</p>
<p>“Bleeding from clearly self-inflicted wounds?” Wolfe pointed out. “Unable to look either of us in the eye?”</p>
<p>“<em>Insisting</em> that nothing is wrong despite all evidence to the contrary?” Santi added.</p>
<p>“<em>Alright!</em>” Jess snapped, and on a normal night he might have been a little frightened by the monstrous growl that had entered his voice unbidden, but now it felt somehow satisfying. “That’s <em>enough!</em>”</p>
<p>“That’s better,” said Wolfe, holding Jess’s gaze for a moment before turning away toward the kitchen. “Normally, I would suggest tea, but I believe this calls for something stronger.”</p>
<p>Santi stretched an arm toward the parlor. It wasn’t a suggestion.</p>
<p>Jess stormed in, his hands balled into fists so tight they ached, and sat down hard in the center of the sofa. Through the doorway, he could see the two men whispering to each other, throwing furtive glances his way, and it only served to make him even more furious. He felt as if he were going mad with the rage swirling blackly inside him. If only he’d gone and picked a fight outside a pub instead, maybe he could have been blissfully unconscious in a gutter by now. But his half-aware mind had decided to do the intelligent thing and carry him to the home of the only two father figures he had in his life. <em>Gods damn it.</em></p>
<p>Santi carried three tiny glasses into the parlor and set them on the coffee table; Wolfe followed, carrying a bottle of crystal-clear vodka, and filled all three.</p>
<p>Jess didn’t wait to be handed one; he snatched up a glass and threw the liquid back, reflexively wincing a little as it burned its way down his throat. He slammed the glass back on the table, and Wolfe poured him another, which he downed just as eagerly. He could feel a warm flush creeping through him already, and remembered he hadn’t eaten since his small breakfast of toast, fruit, and coffee.</p>
<p>Wolfe had set the bottle down on the table, and he sunk into an armchair to one end of the couch; Santi took the other.</p>
<p>“Do you want to tell us what’s wrong?” asked Santi, sipping at his vodka.</p>
<p>In response, Jess poured himself a third glass and gulped that down as well, then leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, staring down at his hands as they twisted together hard enough to hurt. He didn’t know where to start.</p>
<p>“Did something happen with Thomas?” asked Wolfe, gripping the arms of his chair. “Is he alright?”</p>
<p>Jess nodded and rasped “He’s fine.”</p>
<p>“Something with the bookshop, then?” asked Santi.</p>
<p>Jess shook his head.</p>
<p>“For Heron’s sake, Brightwell,” Wolfe said as good-naturedly as ever. “That’s expensive Russian vodka, and the shipping from Chechnya isn’t cheap either. I demand you repay us by telling us what the <em>hell</em> is happening.”</p>
<p>______________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>When Jess looked up and met his gaze at last, Christopher was surprised to see wetness in his eyes. The boy was on the edge of weeping; that was a rare occurrence.</p>
<p>“It’s my fault, isn’t it?” he finally said, his voice cracking.</p>
<p>“What is?” asked Nic.</p>
<p>There was a long pause, Jess taking in measured breaths, clearly attempting to compose himself. When he spoke, his voice barely cleared a whisper. “Morgan.” He paused. “Brendan.” Speaking the names seemed to pain him immeasurably. “You. Going back—<em>there—</em>”</p>
<p>Prison bars and instruments of torture flashed behind Wolfe’s eyes for a moment; he dug the fingernails of one hand into his knee to keep himself in the present.</p>
<p>Leaning forward, Wolfe poured more vodka into Jess’s glass; he shot it back, cheeks already flushed red from the alcohol, and while he was distracted, Christopher and Nic shared a lingering, concerned glance.</p>
<p>“What makes you think that any of this is your fault?” Nic asked in the soft voice he reserved for those closest to him, and only then when they were in deep distress.</p>
<p>Jess shook his head slowly. “If I’d solved the riddle quicker, if I’d found a way to escape Philadelphia without getting my brother mixed up in everything, if I’d—"</p>
<p>“Stop,” Christopher said. “You cannot change the past, Brightwell. What’s done is done.”</p>
<p>The boy shook his head again and reached for the bottle, not seeming to notice when his unsteady hand sloshed a coin-sized amount of vodka onto the table. He swallowed the contents of a fifth glass, then set it down again, his eyes shining in the warm yellow light of the Glow on the table.</p>
<p>“I shouldn’t be here,” he said, the edges sanded off his words by the alcohol. He swayed slightly.</p>
<p>“You’re welcome here,” Nic argued. “You know that.”</p>
<p>“<em>No!</em>” he shouted, rage ripping from his throat like a wild animal breaking free. “I don’t <em>deserve</em> to be here, not when they’re <em>dead!</em>”</p>
<p>Wolfe recognized the breed of guilt that weighed on Jess, then. Often when he’d first been released from the prison, when he’d been recovering from that horrible ordeal that left him broken in so many ways, he’d thought of the others who hadn’t been so lucky, those who would rot down there at the mercy of Qualls and his lackeys until they died. Even though he’d vowed to never, ever go back, even if he had to steal Nic’s pistol and blow his brains out to avoid doing so, he’d felt unworthy of his freedom. What made him so special that he deserved to breathe as much fresh, outside air as he wanted, to have enough to eat, and a warm bed, and to be in his lover’s arms in actuality rather than just in dreams and hallucinations, when so many others would never again see the light of day?</p>
<p>This was survivor’s guilt, multiplied for every person who had died since Jess had first come to Alexandria, and there was no fix for it. Christopher still felt it to this day, even though one of Khalila’s first acts as Archivist was to have the prison emptied, the innocents handsomely compensated, and all instruments of torture burned.</p>
<p>He met Nic’s gaze and then looked pointedly toward Jess’s bloody arm; Nic nodded, understanding, and got up to leave.</p>
<p>“Jess,” said Wolfe. “Look at me.”</p>
<p>Jess glared up at him through his damp eyelashes.</p>
<p>“I know,” he said. “I know what you’re feeling, and it doesn’t ever go away. At least, it hasn’t yet.”</p>
<p>A fat tear spilled over and ran down Jess’s cheek, and he swayed where he sat, as if trying to withstand a stiff gale. He looked down again then. “I couldn’t save them,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve to carry their legacy. I’m incapable, in-inadequate.” He sniffled. “I don’t want to feel like this forever. I want to be done. I—I miss Morgan. I miss my brother.” His tone morphed into an angry shout then, the words slurred. “My <em>last</em> brother! He died for <em>my</em> cause! Because <em>I </em>brought him into it!”</p>
<p>He curled forward, arms wrapped around his stomach as if he would shatter if he didn’t hold himself together, and his breaths were ragged and trembling. “Where do you think we go when we die?” <em>And will the people we lost be there to greet us?</em> Wolfe felt him wondering.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Wolfe said, shifting to sit on the sofa beside the boy, “and you’re not going to find out for a long, long time.”</p>
<p>A mirthless bark of laughter escaped Jess, but he didn’t bother to argue. That worried Wolfe more than anything.</p>
<p>Niccolo returned with bandages, ointment, and wound cleaner; kneeling on the floor to Jess’s right, he put the supplies on the coffee table and waited.</p>
<p>“Let Santi clean your arm,” Wolfe ordered, his voice so gentle it surprised even him.</p>
<p>Jess didn’t respond, so Wolfe poured him yet more vodka and held it under his downturned face; when Jess reached up with his left hand to take it, Santi grabbed his right and pulled it straight, then quickly peeled the sleeve back. The blood had congealed, sticking the fabric to the wound, so with the sleeve came all the newly forming scabs. Jess jerked back in pain, spilling half the vodka on his shirt as he hissed in a sharp breath.</p>
<p>“Sorry,” said Santi. “You really should have cleaned and bandaged this earlier.” There were hundreds of pieces of dust and tiny fibers from his shirt stuck in the raw, glistening, shredded skin; the wound stretched from the soft underside of his wrist almost to his elbow.</p>
<p>Wolfe fought to hold back a grimace, and poured the boy another finger of vodka. Jess shot it, then gripped the edge of the sofa cushion with his free hand as Santi used a clean cloth to wipe the grit from the wound. He shook harder with every stroke, and when Santi poured wound disinfectant over it, he growled in pain.</p>
<p>“Almost done now,” said Nic, gently blotting it dry before applying a thick layer of salve.</p>
<p>Wolfe reached across Jess to hold the end of the bandage in place as Nic unrolled it, wrapping it around Jess’s arm as he did. Finally, Nic tied it off and tugged Jess’s sleeve down over the white gauze, rewarding Christopher with a soft smile of thanks.</p>
<p>Jess hadn’t stopped shaking, and now that his right arm had been bandaged and freed from Santi’s grip, he braced both arms around his middle again and curled forward again. His breaths came quick and ragged, and he rocked stiffly back and forth, muttering something under his breath. Wolfe was uncomfortably reminded of the dark days and sleepless nights when he’d come home, and he curled his hands into fists in case they betrayed him by trembling.</p>
<p>“No, you don’t,” Niccolo said quietly, moving to sit on the other end of the sofa, to Jess’s right. And that was when Wolfe understood the words Jess had been whispering: <em>I want to die, I just want to die.</em></p>
<p>“You have lost a great deal, son,” Nic continued, “but you have so much, even now. A broken bone heals twice as strong. You’ll see.” The words were almost identical to what he’d said so many times to Christopher, during his own throes of panic and despair.</p>
<p>“It hurts,” said Jess, and a sob finally escaped him. Wolfe knew he wasn’t talking about his shredded wrist; Jess had suffered far worse and barely batted an eye.</p>
<p>“It does,” Wolfe agreed. “But you have a choice: persevere through the pain until you learn to live with it, and find the joy in life anyway, or pass that pain on to everyone who loves you. Thomas, Khalila, Dario, Glain, Anit, Nic, myself. And I swear to you, the pain they will experience will be just as horrible as yours.” He glanced over Jess’s back toward his lover, and the warmth in Niccolo’s eyes could have melted iron.</p>
<p>Another sob escaped Jess, and then more tumbled out, each one tripping over the heels of the last. Wolfe hadn’t seen him like this since Brendan had died in his arms. The alcohol probably had something to do with it. Ah, well, the boy had needed to let himself feel his pain for a while now. He’d kept it bottled up far too long.</p>
<p>Wolfe decided to do something rather out of character, and laid a hand on Jess’s back, moving it in slow circles. Then, all of a sudden, Jess clumsily leaned against him, and Wolfe really didn’t have any choice other than to embrace the young man as he broke apart.</p>
<p>Nic moved closer and they held Jess between them, their pseudo-child who had already experienced a lifetime in his eighteen years, and tried to convey their undying support for him through their embrace—he’d had precious little, of support and embraces both, throughout his short existence.</p>
<p>Wolfe’s Codex buzzed, and he extracted his left hand from Jess’s to pull it from his pocket and flip it open.</p>
<p><em>Is Jess there?</em> Thomas’s frantic scribble read. <em>He was upset, and he went for a walk, and he hasn’t come back.</em></p>
<p>Wolfe held the Codex out over Jess’s back, and Nic read the message, then scratched out a quick reply with his free hand. <em>He’s here. He’s safe.</em></p>
<p><em>Thank you, sir.</em> The letters appeared more slowly and steadily now.</p>
<p>Just as Christopher was slipping the Codex back into his pocket, it buzzed again. Rolling his eyes, he pulled it back out.</p>
<p>
  <em>He was reading his old journal. He found his first entry about Morgan, when she arrived in Alexandria. I think that’s what set him off. That’s all he told me.</em>
</p>
<p>Wolfe held it out for Nic to read, and he nodded; Wolfe put away the Codex without replying.</p>
<p>Jess’s sobs tapered at last to sniffles and hiccups, and Wolfe had an idea.</p>
<p>“Wait here,” he said. “I have something to show you.” He extricated himself from Jess’s limbs and stood, grunting softly at the stiffness in his back.</p>
<p>In the bedroom he shared with Santi, he opened the wardrobe and pulled the alchemically-locked safe from its dark depths, knocking out a couple odd shoes as he did. He brushed the sensor with his fingers, and the lock, coded to open only when it sensed his quintessence, opened with a soft <em>snick</em>.</p>
<p>Inside, he kept an old golden necklace of his mother’s, the journal he’d been keeping when he’d first met and fallen for his beloved, and something else, wrapped in cloth.</p>
<p>He unwrapped the white linen from the last object, revealing the ring with the large amber stone that had been given him by his father, the reluctant Obscurist Magnus. He slipped it on his finger and closed his eyes. <em>Morgan?</em></p>
<p><em>I’m here,</em> she said, her voice echoing through his mind. <em>How are you, Scholar? How long has it been? Time isn’t really real in here.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>I need you to do something for me.</em>
</p>
<p>____________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>Niccolo Santi was supporting Jess as he quivered, one strong hand rubbing his back, the other holding his shoulder to keep him from falling over, when his lover reappeared, carrying something that glinted in the light of the coffee table Glow. As he came closer, Nic recognized it as an amber stone, set in a gold ring.</p>
<p>“What’s that?” he asked softly.</p>
<p>“I’ll explain later,” Christopher said, sitting back down. “Jess, give me your hand.”</p>
<p>The boy sniffled and held out his unsteady left hand.</p>
<p>Christopher slipped the ring onto his index finger, and immediately, Jess froze, his eyes stretching wide, jaw slack.</p>
<p><em>Trust me,</em> Chris mouthed to Nic, and although he was confused, Nic nodded.</p>
<p>______________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>
  <em>Hello, Jess.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Who are—how is—</em> Jess paused, afraid to even think it, scared he’d lost his mind, but he had to ask. <em>Morgan?</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Yes, it’s me. My soul was preserved in this ring.</em>
</p>
<p><em>You’re trapped in a piece of jewelry?</em> Jess thought privately that that must be a fate worse than death.</p>
<p>Then her laugh rang through his mind, and it both warmed him and made him want to cry. <em>No, it’s not like that at all. For me, it’s a never-ending space I can conform to my will. I know everything now. I can do anything. I’m free. It’s wonderful.</em></p>
<p>Jess felt fresh tears spill from his eyes, even as his anger began to rekindle. <em>Why does Wolfe have the ring? Why didn’t he tell me? Why—</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Jess, I can’t talk for long. Even free as I am, communicating with a non-Obscurist this way drains my energy and my power. Scholar Wolfe is helping as much as he can, but he doesn’t have much power to spare.</em>
</p>
<p>Jess’s eyes drifted shut. It felt as if he were about to lose her all over again. <em>Morgan, I’m so sorry. If I—</em></p>
<p><em>Shut up, Jess Brightwell.</em> Her voice was a shout inside his head. <em>Everything that happened </em>happened<em>, and even if any of it </em>had<em> been your fault, there’s no use wishing you could change it now.</em> Her thought-voice softened.<em> It’s over. Let go. Move on.</em></p>
<p><em>I don’t know if I can, </em>he admitted<em>. It’s still so hard. I’m fine for days, weeks, months even, and then all at once…</em></p>
<p><em>I know,</em> she said. <em>It was like that for me after I escaped the war in Oxford.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Why did you never tell me?</em>
</p>
<p><em>Because I was trying to forget, </em>she replied. <em>But trying to forget is not an effective way to deal with grief. You’re going to feel it, and it’s going to hurt like you’ve been bombed with Greek fire, but you’re going to get through it. You’re going to move on.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Morgan—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I have to go, Jess. Don’t do anything stupid. You still have your life. Do something with it. I know you’ll make something incredible of yourself. I promise, good things will come, and you’ll be glad you stuck round to see them.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Morgan—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And by the way, everyone can see the way you and Thomas look at each other. You two should have a talk.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Morgan, don’t—</em>
</p>
<p><em>Goodbye, Jess. </em>Her thought-voice was already fading.<em> I love you.</em></p>
<p>
  <em>Morgan? Morgan?!</em>
</p>
<p>Silence.</p>
<p>She was gone.</p>
<p>___________________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>Niccolo watched as Jess wilted, catching his breath. Chris slipped the ring off Jess’s finger and wrapped it in a cloth, then buried it deep in his pocket. An exhaustion had come over his lover, further confusing Nic as to the nature of the strange piece of jewelry.</p>
<p>Jess stared into nothingness, tears pouring silently from his reddened eyes, his cheeks blotchy from drink.</p>
<p>“Was it good?” Chris asked quietly, and after a long pause, Jess nodded, his mouth still hanging slightly open.</p>
<p>Nic gripped Jess’s shoulder, and the boy melted, weeping bitterly. But instead of sobs of anger and utter despair, these spoke of quiet, resigned grief.</p>
<p>Jess turned his face up toward Chris’s. “Thank you,” he managed.</p>
<p>“There, there,” said Christopher, brushing Jess’s hair back with a hand. “You will be all right.” He gathered the boy into his arms, and added quietly, “We both will.” He looked toward Nic, and Nic saw tears in his lover’s eyes; he reached out to tuck a lock of long, dark hair, streaked with gray, behind Chris’s ear.</p>
<p>“I love you,” Nic whispered.</p>
<p>“I know,” Chris replied. “I love you, too.”</p>
<p>Eventually, Jess’s sobs tapered off, morphing into the deep, slow breaths of sleep. Niccolo helped Christopher lay the boy gently down on the sofa, then fetched a blanket and spread it over him.</p>
<p><em>Jess will be sleeping here tonight, Thomas,</em> he saw Chris writing in his Codex. <em>Everything will be alright.</em></p>
<p>Nic turned off the Glow, put away the vodka, then took his lover’s hand and led him to their bedroom. They undressed, and Chris put the ring into his safe in the wardrobe.</p>
<p>“So,” he said softly as they slipped into bed, “the ring?”</p>
<p>“It’s supposed to be a secret,” Wolfe admitted. “But I couldn’t think of a better way to help him.” He turned off the Glow on his nightstand and nestled into Nic’s waiting arms. “It’s Morgan.”</p>
<p>“<em>What?</em>” Nic stiffened. “<em>Morgan</em> is in the ring?”</p>
<p>Wolfe nodded. “In a way. I asked her to talk to Jess, tell him it wasn’t his fault and to stop being a suicidal idiot.”</p>
<p>“Tactful.” Nic shifted into a more comfortable position, nestling his face into Chris’s soft hair. “You can—<em>communicate</em> with her, in the ring?” He had so, so many questions.</p>
<p>“<em>I</em> can,” Christopher replied, and yawned. “But enabling the connection between her and Jess, who has no Obscurist power, well, Morgan had to use a good deal of my own energy for that. It’s a gesture I most likely won’t be repeating. Now shut up and let me sleep.”</p>
<p>Nic grinned and kissed his lover’s neck. “I love you too, <em>amore mio</em>.”</p>
<p>_________________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>When Jess awoke, even before he opened his eyes, he knew something was off. The lighting was different, he wasn’t in his bed, and his head pounded relentlessly. It took him a concerningly long time to remember where he was and why he was there, but finally, he managed to piece together the memories of leaving his house, being ushered into Wolfe and Santi’s home, and drinking. Drinking a lot. And, oh gods, <em>crying</em>. He’d cried so much. He could feel the dried tears on his cheeks, on his chin, even on his eyelids.</p>
<p>At last, he cracked one eye open, then the other. Golden light slanted through the blinds, painting the room in luminescent stripes. He noticed commotion from the kitchen then, the sounds of a meal being prepared—and each metal clang or scrape of a pan drilled right to the center of his head.</p>
<p>Groaning, he slowly carefully sat up, focusing all of his willpower on not vomiting all over Wolfe and Santi’s floor, and once he’d accomplished that, he had to sit still and breathe for several long moments until the pounding headache lessened enough for him to stand.</p>
<p>Shuffling into the kitchen, where Santi was sautéing something in a cast iron pan and Wolfe was chopping vegetables, both their backs turned toward him, he glanced at the table and saw three place settings.</p>
<p>“You didn’t have to make me breakfast,” he said, his voice barely more than a croak.</p>
<p>“We didn’t,” Wolfe said without turning. “We made supper.” He brushed chopped carrots and tomatoes into a bowl of greens and turned to set the bowl on the kitchen table. Well-disguised though it was, Jess didn’t miss the glance of concern Wolfe sent his way.</p>
<p>“Sit down before you fall down, Brightwell,” said Santi, tipping his pan to slide a mixture of chicken thighs, onions, and mushrooms onto a serving dish.</p>
<p>The food looked good, but the smell brought Jess’s nausea back with a vengeance. “I’ll just have some water, if that’s alright.”</p>
<p>“Good,” Wolfe said. “I won’t have to force the water down your throat, then. When’s the last time you had any food or drink, besides the vodka?”</p>
<p>“Yesterday morning,” Jess admitted sheepishly. “But if I eat now, it’ll come right back up.” He fetched the glass from the place at the table that had been set for him, and filled it with water, sipping it carefully even though his dried-out body cried for him to gulp it down, then pour another, and another.</p>
<p>“That’s fine,” said Santi, transferring food into a covered dish. “You’ll take this home and share it with Thomas when you’re feeling better.”</p>
<p>“I can’t—”</p>
<p>“You <em>will,</em>” Wolfe snapped, glaring at Jess with one eyebrow raised as he sipped his own water.</p>
<p>Jess shut up and nodded. “Thank you both. For everything.” He finished his glass of water, then took the covered dishes from Santi.</p>
<p>“For Heron’s sake, take a carriage home,” Wolfe ordered. “I don’t want to find you in a puddle of your own vomit when I go for my evening stroll.”</p>
<p>“I’m—”</p>
<p>“If you say you’re fine, I’ll knock your teeth right out of your fool head.”</p>
<p>“Will you, now?” asked Santi, sitting down in the chair across from him.</p>
<p>“Well, I might have you do it for me.”</p>
<p>Santi grinned at his lover, then turned to nod at Jess. “Give our regards to Thomas.”</p>
<p>Jess returned the nod. “Thank you, I will.” He turned to go, then stopped as a hazy memory floated toward him, lingering just out of reach. “Scholar Wolfe, sir?” he said, facing the men again. “Did something—I mean—well, this will sound daft, but—did I talk to Morgan last night?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Wolfe. “Are you ever going to let me have my supper in peace?”</p>
<p>“Must have been a dream,” said Santi. “What did she say?”</p>
<p>Jess shook his head. “Nothing.” <em>Everything</em>. “But you’re right, it must have been a dream.” Sighing, pondering all he could remember of his dreamt conversation with Morgan, he turned and left.</p>
<p>________________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>Thomas was in the parlor, sipping tea and reading, when he heard the steam carriage stop outside. He turned to glance over his shoulder through the window, and watched Jess gingerly disembark from the carriage into the blue evening light, bearing a covered dish in each hand. Standing, he put down his book and teacup and hurried to open the door.</p>
<p>“Thomas,” Jess said in surprise, and stepped through the door. “Thanks.”</p>
<p>“Is that food?” asked Thomas, and drew in a deep breath. “Smells good.”</p>
<p>“Wolfe and Santi send their regards,” Jess announced. He looked tired; his hair was mussed, his clothes wrinkled, and his eyes were red, with puffy circles beneath them.</p>
<p>Thomas followed Jess into the kitchen and watched him put the dishes into the icebox, then fetch himself a glass of water. He leaned back against the countertop as he sipped it.</p>
<p>“So,” said Thomas, feeling every bit as awkward as he had when the two had first met, “do you want to, you know, talk? Or something?”</p>
<p>Jess seemed to remember something, and smiled softly to himself. “I’m sorry for last night. Sorry you had to see me like that, and that I was harsh.”</p>
<p>“It’s nothing you haven’t put up with from me,” Thomas replied truthfully; he felt himself blush as the memories came back.</p>
<p>“It’s not <em>putting up with</em>,” said Jess. “You’re my best friend.”</p>
<p>A smile spread across Thomas’s face. “You, my friend, are a sap.”</p>
<p>“Yes, well.” He sipped his water. “It takes one to know one.”</p>
<p>They both laughed, and then Jess looked away awkwardly, as if there were something he wasn’t saying.</p>
<p>“What are you thinking, Jess?” Thomas crossed the kitchen to lean against the counter beside his friend.</p>
<p>“I had a dream last night,” he said. “It was so <em>real</em>. I talked to Morgan.”</p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>Jess nodded. “She sort of—said something, hat made me realize something I should have realized a long time ago.”</p>
<p>“What was it that Dream-Morgan said?”</p>
<p>Jess considered his water as he swirled it around in his glass, then set it down, stood straight, and turned toward Thomas. “I’m going to ask you something,” he said, “and if you say no, or if you aren’t sure, there will be absolutely no hard feelings, and nothing will change.”</p>
<p>Thomas thought he knew where this was going, and tried not to dare hope that he was correct. “Alright.” He pushed off the counter to stand straight as well.</p>
<p>“Have you ever thought about—us?”</p>
<p>“In—in what capacity?” Thomas stammered, a little breathless.</p>
<p>“In the same sort of capacity as Wolfe and Santi.”</p>
<p>“Reluctant fathers to a gaggle of unruly, rebellious students?”</p>
<p>Jess chuckled. “No. I meant, well…”</p>
<p>“Jess,” said Thomas, and Jess looked up at him. “I know what you meant.” He took Jess’s hands in his own, and stepped closer.</p>
<p>Jess’s eyes flicked to Thomas’s mouth, then back up. He bit his bottom lip. “Are you sure?”</p>
<p>In response, Thomas swallowed hard to keep the butterflies from escaping his stomach, and kissed his best friend.</p>
<p>He had no idea what he was doing, beyond what he’d seen other people do, and it was nothing like he’d ever expected or imagined before, but that was alright, because it was so much better. A giddy feeling blossomed in his chest, and he fought the urge to burst into joyous laughter.</p>
<p>At last, breathless, they broke apart and stared into one another’s eyes again. Then Thomas grinned wider than he had in a long, long time, and pulled Jess close, squeezing him tight. Jess hugged him back, tight, and for the first time, there was no self-consciousness, no reservations, no concerns about the socially acceptable amount of time that two men not in a romantic relationship could embrace.</p>
<p>“<em>Ich habe mich in dich verliebt**</em>, Jess,” Thomas said softly.</p>
<p>“<em>Ich habe mich in dich verliebt auch</em>,” Jess replied.</p>
<p>Chuckling, Thomas corrected him. “<em>Ich habe mich </em>auch<em> in dich verliebt***</em>.”</p>
<p>“Shut up. You knew what I meant.”</p>
<p>And finally, Thomas couldn’t hold it back anymore. He burst into loud, booming laughter of pure, unbridled joy.</p>
<p>At first, Jess looked incredulous, but then he laughed too, and the love in his eyes as he watched Thomas’s happiness could have melted the polar ice caps.</p>
<p>“All right,” Jess said finally, massaging the sides of his head, “seriously, please shut up. I drank…” He tried to count on his fingers, then shook his head, giving up. “A <em>lot</em> of vodka last night.”</p>
<p>“And you didn’t invite me?” Thomas feigned offense, but couldn’t hold it for long. Grinning, he refilled Jess’s water glass and handed it to him. “Go rest. We can discuss the, er, <em>new developments</em> more later. But not before you brush your teeth.”</p>
<p>“You didn’t taste like spun sugar either, I’ll have you know,” Jess called back as he made for the stairs.</p>
<p>“You didn’t give me any notice!” Thomas retorted, and he couldn’t help but laugh again.</p>
<p>__________________________________________________________________________</p>
<p>After cleaning his teeth as instructed, Jess finished his glass of water and laid down on his bed, on top of the covers, to wait out the headache and the remainder of the nausea until he could stand the sight of food again. He thought back on the previous night, feeling his cheeks redden with embarrassment as he thought of how he’d bawled all over Wolfe and Santi.</p>
<p>Then, he remembered a ring. He couldn’t quite put together the context, but it was somehow very familiar, like he’d seen someone wearing it before.</p>
<p>Morgan. It had been Morgan’s ring.</p>
<p>Oddly enough, he could still remember the exact feel of it on his finger, as if he’d really worn it. But of course, that was impossible. The dream had just been unusually vivid—perhaps it was an effect of all that vodka on an empty stomach.</p>
<p>But somehow, Dream-Morgan had known exactly what to say; it had been like she was really there, speaking with him inside his head. He couldn’t remember it word-for-word, but he remembered how it made him feel. Her encouragement to persevere, her promise that good things lay ahead for him if only he stuck around to find them.</p>
<p>He smiled, thinking of Thomas. She’d been right. Something good had begun already.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*nicht wieder: not again<br/>**ich hat mich in dich verliebt: I have fallen in love with you<br/>***ich hat mich auch in dich verliebt: I have fallen in love with you too</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>